


Remember Me

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Failed Sex, M/M, Massages, More angst, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach reunion, all of the angst, i mean not much but like a momentary glimpse of it, i told you it was angsty, slight mention of self-harm, this is what happens when Sherlock deletes John, tw: self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had spent the better part of the last three years trying to forget, but ultimately it didnʼt work. It never would, not when Sherlock had been a cornerstone the last few years of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bitenomnom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/gifts).



> This was a tumblr prompt fill for [Bitenomnom](archiveofourown.org/users/bitenomnom), and beta'd by her as well.

 

London began her bustle down on the street below, unconcerned with the exhausted inhabitants of 221B. In the aftermath of Sherlock’s latest revelation, delivered with the trademark candidness John had come to miss in the last three years, the air stilled until John felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

“So you donʼt remember anything, do you?” John asked, his voice deadpan. It was merely a reiteration of what Sherlock had just told him, but he was too dumbfounded to know how else to respond. 

He had spent the better part of the last three years, himself, trying to forget, but ultimately it didnʼt work. It never would, not when Sherlock had been a cornerstone the last few years of his life. After St. Bartʼs, and the funeral, and god almighty, the endless nights of too much pain to sleep--here was Sherlock, alive and as good as an amnesiac.

Sherlock sat in his old chair, stone-faced and straight-backed. John knew enough about him to know that the expression, which bordered on arrogant, was Sherlockʼs first line of defense: he was putting on his poker face to keep from betraying whatever it was he might be honestly feeling about his admission. 

“Was it an injury? While you were out--hunting down Moriartyʼs men, I mean. Was it some blow to the head that left you like this?” John hunched forward in his own chair, elbows on knees, fighting the urge to hide his face in his hands. Instead he threaded his fingers together, gave them a solid squeeze, and searched Sherlockʼs face for any other indicators.

Sherlock shook his head, a quick jerk, nothing more. “My memories of the past few years are intact, even before the fall. It is simply that you are not in them. Mycroft mentioned you, coming back to you, once I had accomplished my mission, but I found I did not remember your existence.”

John restrained himself from closing his eyes, willing himself not to register the sharp jab between his ribs as Sherlockʼs words formed a knife that sank somewhere to the left of his sternum. He leveled a steady breath, sensing how important it was to remain absolutely calm and neutral, if not for Sherlockʼs benefit, then at least for his own.

“Nothing?” he asked, though it was more of a statement.

Sherlock nodded again, that succinct motion that spoke volumes to John about Sherlockʼs internal struggle. He could imagine his Lazarus-like partnerʼs train of thought: a slew of observations about John’s frown lines or the neatness of his collared shirt that spoke of John’s military training and short temper, things _his_ Sherlock would know.

  _This_ Sherlock looked as though braced for a fistfight.

But John wasnʼt angry. He was certainly nowhere nearer to punching his former flatmate squarely in the mouth than he had been when the raggedy man had appeared on his doorstep the evening before, looking for the world like a homeless person ( _How could I forget how clever he was at disguises?_ John had thought to himself).

John tried to remember his earliest days with Sherlock, right after they had met, before John ever had permission to lay a finger on Sherlock. Undoing months of casual caresses, warm embraces, the affectionate pop- kisses, long nights (and mornings, and afternoons) where they had each learned the other’s body like the streets of London herself, by immersion--taste and touch and exploration.

It was like starting over, and something wrenched in Johnʼs chest to realize it.

It should have been apparent, he knew, after the previous night. Theyʼd stayed up early into the morning, discussing the past few years, Sherlock explaining his mission and John trying and failing to avoid detailing his bottoming-out period, how he hit rock bottom after the funeral and took nearly a year to claw his way back out of the Sherlock-shaped hole.

John had stood up, finally, stretching sore muscles from a night spent huddled on the couch over untouched teas and a painfully distant Sherlock, given him a shaky smile, and said, “We can talk more in the morning. Coming to bed?”

And Sherlock, rather than the sleepy nod or mischievous smirk that John was accustomed to after such an offer, merely slipped into his stone-cold mask, the one that to John so easily read as, “Out of my depth but unwilling to show it,” and had followed John wordlessly upstairs.

Before John had fallen asleep, the only thing he could think of was _why isnʼt he curving into me, the way he used to?_

But now, in the cold grey of morning, John understood. He did not need to ask, “Did you delete me because it hurt too much?” or “Why did you have to go through with it at all, if you knew the cost would be more than you could handle?”

John knew, he knew the answers to those questions, and they would be wasted breath. So instead, he asked, “Would you like to re-learn?”

Even to his ears, his voice was small and much feeblerthan he wanted. His heart kicked up a notch or two, even around the jagged shard of knowledge Sherlock had just imparted--afraid that the answer was _no_ or _why would I?_

“Yes, I--I believe so,” Sherlock answered, equally as quiet. 

 

*****

 

Once the door to John’s room-- _their_ room--closed on them, Sherlock wordlessly slipped off his dressing gown. The look of detachment on Sherlock’s face twisted John’s stomach, so he sat on the edge of their bed, and patted the space beside him.

Sherlock looked as though he were about to say something, but John cut him off, thinking of his early days in Sherlock’s bed, how naive the man had been. “How about a massage? If you don’t want it to go any further than that, it doesn’t have to.”

Something about the purse of Sherlock’s lips read as a silent relief as he nodded. He dropped to his knees on the mattress, and stretched out across the bed.

“You used to really enjoy this,” John murmured as he straddled the small of Sherlock’s back.

He leaned forward and began gingerly working his fingers into the tight knots of muscle on either side of Sherlockʼs neck. When his progress was halted by the collar of Sherlock’s t-shirt, John lifted the hem of the shirt. “May I?”

Sherlock nodded silently, and lifted onto his elbows enough for John to slide the shirt up and off of him.

 John began again at the base of Sherlock’s neck, kneading the flesh there into submission.

 _I never thought I’d get to do this again,_ John thought, and pushed the realization away, focusing on the man below him.

“Weʼd spend hours, after the really rough cases, just rubbing out the aches and pains of dashing around London like a couple of mad teenagers.” He fell silent for a minute, pushing the pads of his thumbs into widening arcs from the base of Sherlockʼs neck down between his shoulder blades. He smiled, chuckling softly to himself in memory. “And you would stretch and make noises comparable to a self-gratified tomcat.”

Sherlock was silent, still half tense, though John did his best to be gentle and go slowly with him. At length Sherlocksaid, “Where do you prefer I massage first, when itʼs my turn?”

John forced his rhythm not to falter, but closed his eyes and chewed his bottom lip where Sherlock couldnʼt see, to keep from showing how much even these small questions cost him. 

Summoning his voice, he parroted Sherlockʼs own words from _before_ in answer, “Data collection is the most efficient method--Iʼm sure youʼd observe better than I even know myself, anyhow.” 

Sherlockʼs entire body tensed, undoing all Johnʼs handiwork. “I said that, didnʼt I?” he asked quietly.

John didnʼt give an answer, didnʼt need to. He merely pressed his knuckles into the knots between Sherlockʼs shoulder blades, trying to ignore the new scars Sherlock had earned while heʼd been-- _away_. 

After a few minutesʼ work, he deemed the area well- rubbed and worked his way down the columns of muscle on either side of Sherlockʼs spine, and when he hit Sherlockʼs lower back he was rewarded with a soft groan. He earned another as he hit the pressure point on either side of Sherlockʼs sacrum, right where the pelvic bone met the spine.

Sherlock pulled in a breath as if to speak, but then seemed to decide against it.

“What is it?” John asked, slipping down to massage those long, pale hamstrings, one of which sported a light purple weal, a scar from Sherlockʼs time _away_.

Sherlock shook his head, intent on eating his words.

“Just say it,” John prodded, bracing himself for Sherlockʼs unique brand of bluntness. “Weʼll work out the semantics later.”

Sherlock lay silent for another long moment before speaking. “I was an idiot, to delete memories of this.”

John nodded, not needing to agree aloud. He slipped down to work the hard muscle of Sherlockʼs calves in silence, focusing on pushing away his own thoughts.

_God, Iʼve missed you._

_I thought I would die, without you here._

_It was worse, you know. Worse than coming home a broken man from a war we couldnʼt win, to nothing and no one._

_You were my whole world._

John stooped to pick up Sherlockʼs left foot. He pressed the heel of his palm into the long, high arch as Sherlock flexed his foot to demonstrate the appendage at its most sculpturesque. “You always do that,” he whispered, not sure anymore if Sherlock could even hear him.

He was struck by the last time heʼd rubbed Sherlockʼs feet. They had been at the inn in Devonshire, recovering from their encounter in Duirʼs Hollow, sharing the double-bed theyʼd been allotted. As the chemicals from Dr. Franklandʼs battlefield cocktail abated from their systems, their brains had overcompensated with dopamine and seratonin. What had started as their usual quiet post-case rubdown ended with the sort of embarrassing tell-tale noises that had the innkeepers smirking and winking at them all during checkout, the sort of noises they saved for when Mrs. Hudson was off visiting with Mrs. Turner.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, his voice muffled by pillow.

John squeezed the edges of Sherlockʼs heel, and then mashed his thumb against the flat of it. “You always stretch in these ways that manage to make you look like some Greek statue.”

“Do I?” came the obvious question. “I wasnʼt aware of it.”

John smirked to himself, and shook his head. “I know. If you did it on purpose, youʼd be even more of an insufferable berk than you already are.”

Sherlockʼs torso shook for a moment, and John could tell heʼd found the statement just as John had intended it--an endearment. “Were you always this romantic?” he asked, and John could hear the dry amusement in his voice.

 _Only Sherlock,_ John thought. _Only he could manage to delete a relationship like ours and still find humour in me helping him rebuild it._ John couldnʼt tell right then if he wanted to laugh or cry.

So John didnʼt answer, merely finished the left foot and moved on to the right. After working it to pliancy, he dropped it gently back onto the duvet and cleared his throat.

“Turn over,” he prompted.

Sherlock obliged, though from the angles of his body John could tell he was on edge again. “Shall I--?” he began to offer, but John cut him off.

“This is about you,” John said, and he shuffled on hands and knees to stretch beside Sherlock. “Would you like to--I mean, if you want to, itʼs no pressure--Iʼm not expecting--”

“Yes, I think I would,” Sherlock answered before John managed to actually formulate the entire question.

John lifted his hand to trail it across Sherlockʼs cheek. “I never thought--” he started, but cut himself off.

“Hm?” Sherlock asked, his eyes still closed.

John could tell Sherlockʼs body buzzed with mingled anxiety and anticipation, and he was acutely reminded of the first time they had sex--well, their first time _on purpose._

Their first time _by accident_ had been after the pool, after the Semtex vest and the laser sights; after a divinely-timed phone call had ended the stalemate. By the time they made it home, they were both drained, and fell into a heap on the couch. John had been awoken from his doze to find Sherlockʼs face buried in his neck, whispering nightmare- fueled confessions against his skin, and John had found there in the silence of their flat that he could do nothing, wanted nothing but to reciprocate.

“I never thought Iʼd get to see these cheekbones again,” John mused, letting his fingers drift to the outer shell of Sherlockʼs ear, which earned him a soft exhalation.

“So sentimental,” Sherlock whispered. Johnʼs fingertips brushed down his neck to the hollows of his too-prominent collarbone, and Sherlock bit his lip. “How did we meet?”

John smiled with the memory, and his voice was soft, quiet, as though he were telling a bedtime story. “We met at St. Bartʼs, in the mortuary. That morning you had complained to Mike Stamford that no one would have you as a flatmate--which, I can see why--”

“Hey,” Sherlock interjected, but his mouth was set in a pleased quirk, and John felt his long, pale body relax minutely.

“I was walking through the park a bit later, and happened to run into Mike. We were mates at school--”

“Obvious,” Sherlock interjected again. This one earned him a light thump on his bicep, which Sherlock ignored.

“--and I mentioned being in need of a flatmate, as well, and when Mike took me to meet you, you fell instantly in love with me, and it was happy ever after,” John summarized glibly. _Not happily ever after,_ he told himself. _You faked your own death, and went and forgot me._ He ignored the thought, and concentrated on the task at hand.

“I would not have assumed you were so mendacious,” Sherlock said as John bent to drop a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Caught me,” John said, and kissed him in the hollow where ear met neck. He was rewarded with a hiss. “This,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, “is your favorite spot, and I would always kiss this spot to get you going, if you were in one of your strops and wanted to make things difficult for me.”

Now he was rewarded with a soft whimper.

“You may have deleted this,” John continued, “but your body remembers. Your body remembers me.”

Sherlock groaned now, a wordless plea.

John closed his eyes as he trailed further down, spreading kisses down the flat planes of Sherlockʼs bird-chest, so much thinner since he last saw it, praying he was not in the middle of a cruel dream, that these last two days hadnʼt been some wild hallucination he would wake from. It had happened once or twice, in the early days after the funeral, where John was delirious from sleep deprivation and starvation, and Sherlockʼs ghost would slip around street corners, always out of reach, always ignorant of Johnʼs pleas.

 _Donʼt think about that,_ he told himself. _Even if it is a dream. Focus on now._

And so he lifted his face from Sherlockʼs skin to trace with fingertips the scars he remembered, shrapnel constellations from kitchen chemistry gone wrong, the appendicitis scar from when he was in third grade, the lattice of faded stretch marks at his hips from when he must have shot upward in an alarming growth spurt in middle school; the tiny, freckle-like red puncture-scars from before he cleaned up and started working for Lestrade. _Before_ , John had always avoided those, had always squirmed internally to think of that period of Sherlockʼs life. And now, it was simply part of _him_ , part of the man he thought heʼd lost forever.

And then he inspected the new scars, a bullet wound in his left shoulder like a macabre matching tattoo of Johnʼs own, a patch on his right hip where road rash had healed poorly. And then, a tiny curved scar near the crook of his left elbow, a barely visible white line as if it had been incised with a scalpel, that was shaped like--

“--The letter J,” John whispered as his fingers traced it.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked down at the center of Johnʼs focus. His gaze became neutral, and his voice was emotionless as he said, “I donʼt know how that--” before he did simple addition, and realized where the scar must have come from. “Oh,” he murmured. “I must have--”

“I understand,” John said, thinking of all of the ways he had self-destructed in Sherlockʼs absence.

John dropped low, and pressed a kiss to the J, and he felt his eyes begin to burn. _How bad must it have been, to delete me entirely?_

“We can stop, if you like,” Sherlock whispered in uncharacteristic consideration.

John breathed deeply, trying to sort himself out. After a long moment he nodded slowly. “I--I think so, yeah. Iʼm sorry, but soon.”When he looked up into Sherlockʼs eyes, he knew there was no hiding his pain.

Sherlock, for the first time since his reappearance, had let his stone-faced mask drop, and studied John with genuine curiosity and concern.

“I imagine the situation must have been dire,” he said carefully, his baritone voice hesitant and thick, as if his throat were constricting around his words, “if I had to make myself forget something as amazing as what we must have had.”

John looked away, miserable and betrayed by his emotions, felt his shoulders jerk and his chest shudder with suppressed pain. His tongue felt swollen, his throat clenched around the words he needed to say. _I was so alone._

“John Watson,” Sherlock whispered, and he leaned up to catch Johnʼs jaw, turn his face back toward him. “I am sorry,” he said, and it was barely more than a breath formed around the syllables. “I am. Sorry.”

He pulled John to him then, cradling Johnʼs jaw as his long, thin fingers snaked into the hair at the nape of Johnʼs neck, resting their foreheads together. "Look at me."

John obeyed, and felt as if Sherlockʼs eyes could split him open, spread out all that he found within.

“If your reaction to this entire situation is so intense,” Sherlock murmured without blinking, “then I can begin to estimate how overpowering my own must have been, to know that I intentionally hurt you this way. I donʼt know if I will ever find a way to access those memories again, though it seems a travesty to have ever given them up, no matter how acute the pain. But I am here now. And that will not change. Never again.”

John closed his eyes, feeling tears squeeze free, and he nodded, wordless.

Sherlock shifted then, and brushed his mouth against Johnʼs.

John whispered against his lips, “I love you, you bastard.”

Sherlock did not reply, merely drew John back until they were lying intertwined in the bed that had once been theirs.

The silence drew out from between them, expanding to suppress their yet-spoken words, moulding itself into the corners and crevices of a room that had only seen heartbreak for the past three years.

Below them, London bustled as if nothing had ever changed. Somewhere deep down, hope clung to the rock right there at the bottom of the Sherlock-shaped hole in Johnʼs heart. He prayed that maybe London was right.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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